Archive for November, 2014

I want to write a story for you, my shy muse on the park bench every Monday at 1.30pm.
I watch your eyes narrow in suspicion when I hand you the final script.
I watch the heavily-penciled brow rise as you read the first line…then pause.
You recognise your name.
You try to fight the small smile that pulls at the corner of your lips when you see the flattering description I have used on you. You keep reading, immersed in a story that would soon play out.
I am forgotten, a side show. A messenger.
It’s just you and the story.
You pause and I detect the tension in your shoulders.
You look up at me, almost angry.
“What the fuck is this shit?” You ask almost angrily and I smile.
“Finish the story” I reply gently, pointing to the papers you’re now holding tightly in your hands.
I watch you battle your curiosity, eyeing me balefully as you go back to reading.
This time, you don’t read word for word.
Your eyes skitter fast over words, as if afraid to dwell on them.
Your hands begin to tremble visibly, but this time you do not stop.
You have forgotten about my existence again.
It takes me a few seconds to realise you have not noticed the tears streaking down your well-powdered face.
My fingers itch to lean close and wipe your tears, watch them glisten on my gnarly fingers before I taste them, tongue obscenely lapping to taste the sweet, sweet, salt of your tears.
I wait, fingers clasped tightly together. Your lips tremble and my body, with it.
At that moment, I can see it happening just as I had written.
I can see it happen and it excites me too much.
“This is horrible” you whisper, suddenly throwing the papers at me.
But you do not get up to leave.
No.
You bury your face in your palm and a great sob finds its way out of the confines of your throat.
I close my eyes, trembling, pleasure coursing through my old bones as the sound of your torn soul teases my ears.
I can almost feel it taking effect.
In my trembling, my stooped back begins to straighten. Clasped fingers begin to loosen.
I dare not open my eyes, lest I break the magic.
A moan of anguish escapes your lips and mine part, a young lover on the cusp of her first taste of pleasure.
I feel familiar tugs in me; on me.
Suddenly you stop, gasping.
My eyes pop open just as fast to catch the look of horror on your face,
You stare at your wrinkled palms in confusion.
Your eyes are drawn to me and your eyes widen…in fear?
“Wh…”
You stop, your suddenly gnarly fingers trying to open the clasp on your bag.
Shakily, you pull out a small compact mirror and with effort, manage to open it.
I know what you see and it makes me smile.
I almost want to stroke your grey, straggly hair.
I almost want to stroke the crows feet around your electrifying grey eyes.
“What the fuck did you do to me!” You scream in indignation but the theatrics is spoilt by your now weak vocal chords suddenly wheezing.
I smile fondly at you, patting your arms as I stand.
“Keep the story” I whisper and a little laugh bubbles in my throat.
I suddenly feel the weight of your hair on my head. I run experimental fingers through them and almost sigh in pleasure at the feel.
Just as I had imagined.
I watch you wear my features and I almost feel sad.
But the energy I feel in my bones quickly dispels my sympathy.
I love your skin.
I run youthful fingers across my face, stroking my full cheeks.
Your old fingers suddenly claw on my clothes.
“What have you done! Give me back my body!”
I forcefully prise your fingers off.
“Don’t be a spoilsport” I mutter, standing away from you.
“But…I need to get back to work”
This time I cannot control the laughter.
“Not today, you don’t”
I put what I hope is a comforting arm on your bony shoulders.
“Soon. You’ll get it back soon”
I grin, your smile sitting smugly on my face before I walk off.
I’m kind enough to leave my walking stick for you beside the park bench.
You’d be needing it.

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Ok, this is supposed to be a light hearted non-story post filled to the brim with encouraging words for the week.
But you see, I have a very bad (good) habit of killing things literally. Not literally like literally but literally like litera-really. You feel me? (She asked, sounding like a Yoruba JJC in Yankee)
My habit is so bad (good), it extends to everything I watch. I mean, after two episodes of an anime and no one dies, it’s obviously a sign you’re watching a shoujo not a shounen. In fact, a shounen is a disgrace to shounens if no one dies in the first episode.
Where am I going with this? Your guess is as good as mine.
I don’t guess.

I’ll start again.

Good morning, denizens of Earth.
I bring you greeting from a tiny city surrounded by mountains, greenery and sheep.
It’s a sunny day out here and I’m so happy because I know it’s going to be shit soon. (She put on her raincoat in anticipation)
For breakfast, I had an overripe banana, a burnt half pizza and green tea.
The good, the bad and the ugly.
I leave you to decide which is which.